The Red Sofa Reader
by Tarlea
Summary: Cozy up on the infamous red sofa in Downton's library-read stories of all who live and work there-and more besides! Drabbles and oneshots; all characters, ratings, and genres possible.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For the July 2014 Fanfiction Bonanza. I didn't exactly follow the rules. But I'm not good at following the rules in my writing. Thanks to A-Tardis-At-Downton for a lovely set of prompts! And Happy Independence Day to all fellow rebels out there! No offense to loyalists and royals alike! :)

* * *

July 1st Prompt: Novel

Clouds gathered over Downton town and meager sunlight streamed through clouds to anoint two sets of practically tucked tresses. The one head, wider than its companion, sported clusters of bright red curls. The second was more angular, as was the prudent yet gentle face beneath its brunette waves. Both heads were now turned, watching the figure of a young woman as it made its way down the lane to the post office, its progress hindered slightly by a heavy basket, hooked determinedly over one thin arm. As the traveler disappeared through the post office door, the brown haired observer's lips parted and a fond sigh escaped.

"Was that Daisy I just saw?" Mr. Carson inquired, coming up behind Downton's housekeeper and cook, and peering in the direction of the post office.

"Yes," Mrs. Hughes replied, turning over her shoulder to meet his furrowed brow.

"One of the lads in the post office has taken a fancy to her. He says he wants to learn how to cook. So she's been teaching him," Mrs. Patmore supplied.

Mr. Carson offered a "Hmm," which was not disapproving, but not delighted either.

"It's a novel approach, I must admit, but then it's been years since I've been courting so what do I know?" Mrs. Hughes remarked.

"No matter what I tell her, she won't believe he's stuck on her. She swears he's only interested in the food," Mrs. Patmore shook her head.

"How do you know he's interested?" Mr. Carson asked.

The venerable cook scoffed slightly. "Because I've got eyes, haven't I? The way he looks at her—like he's been lost at sea for months and she's dry land."

Mrs. Hughes stifled a laugh.

"I see," said Mr. Carson, with gravity. "And is this 'lad' good enough for our Daisy?"

Both heads now swiveled towards the butler, and two pairs of raised eyebrows were leveled at him.

"While I can't entirely hold with a member of the staff having followers," Mr. Carson explained, "it seems that the times have overborne me. And as long as she is going to have one, I want him to be worthy of her."

With that pronouncement, he turned to head back to the Abbey. The ladies, after exchanging an amused glance, turned to follow him.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompt: Wet

* * *

"Thé, Major?"

Major Sir Anthony Strallan looked dully at the tin cup filled with steaming brownish liquid that his French comrade was extending towards him.

"Yes, thank you, Capitaine. Merci," Anthony gave him a small weary smile and accepted the cup.

The mustachioed Capitaine hunched his shoulders and ducked out from under the meager shelter where Major Strallan was now huddled, scant escape from the steady downpour that had been filling the trenches of both sides for the past two days. As an intelligence officer, Anthony moved all over—some nights were spent in the warmth of headquarters, billets in dry, French houses with good food and wine and proper tea; some nights in the cold isolation of a ruined barn with only a small patrol or his own wits standing between him and the enemy; and many nights in the god-forsaken trenches. They were the worst. Twelve foot pits which trapped terrified men beneath screaming shells and provided a home for lice, influenza, and rats larger than any Anthony had ever seen. They smelled constantly of vomit and sewage—and they were so often wet. Sometimes Anthony felt he would never be dry again, that the mud and sludge and rain had seeped into his very bones.

He took a sip of his tea, weak but blissfully hot. He closed his eyes, trying for a moment to blot out his hellish surroundings. His mind, as it often did, automatically went to her. Was it raining in Yorkshire, he wondered? Was she right now standing by the window watching the clouds drench the manicured lawns that seemed part of another lifetime? Was she, perhaps, thinking of him?

It was foolish, of course, to think so. Her sister had made her intentions quite clear. An "old bore." And yet, she had seemed so sincere on those drives, at that concert… He was such a fool to have been taken in. Even so, he could not keep his foolish heart from yearning for her, could not train his dreams to deny her, could not banish her from his thoughts. Even now, tucked in a small volume which he kept on his person, were the tickets, a souvenir of that sublime evening, centuries ago… He lived on those memories, remembering in perfect detail how she looked bathed in the glow of the lamps, her shy smiles over her program, the lighthearted conversation and delightful jokes that had made the drive melt away, her bright eyes which had seemed so welcoming, so ready to accept his affections... More glorious still were the visions of what could be, of the simple joys of waking next to her, sharing countless dinners, outings, and quiet evenings by the fire, of children….

He opened his eyes, torn from the glow of Edith's smile into the gloom of the war. It was a dream, he chastised. The foolish dream of an old man. She did not love him. He was not going to share his life with her. The odds were that he would never even see her again. He would die in the stinking hell of France, and no one would care as his body sank into the mud, least of all a vibrant young woman with her life ahead of her.

XXX

Edith strode across the lawn, feeling the tranquility of the early morning, heedless as her hem became saturated with dew. In the calm quiet of dawn, it was almost possible to forget that the house was filled with soldiers and nurses, that very soon the bustle of a hospital would overtake the stillness. She reached the folly* and sat, resting a small tablet on her lap and taking up her pen. She hesitated a moment. Then she bent over the paper and wrote:

"Dear Major Strallan,"

How could she continue? How could you explain that your sister had been so cruel? How could you, with propriety, acknowledge that you would have accepted a man's proposal when he hadn't asked? And perhaps now he was regretting that he had ever considered her to be his wife. What if she wrote to him and he rejected her? She didn't think she could bear to read those words from him.

Arguing against all of these doubts was the truth—the truth that he could die. And that was worse than all her fears—he could die and he would never know…

.

.

.

.

.

.

Weeks later, her letter returned, unopened.

XXX

A/N: A bit of a "what if." What if Edith did get the courage to write to Anthony, but the letter never reached him? What if by the time she sent it he was lying injured somewhere, presumed dead…

*a garden folly, the columned structure in the back lawn that Edith is sometimes pictured sitting on.


	3. Chapter 3

Prompt: Teatime

* * *

Sir Anthony Strallan rubbed his aching temples and groaned a little. He was sat down to a morning of accounting for the estate, something he did not like to leave to an agent, but not a task he relished either. He had been entirely business-minded for the past few years, finally giving up on a legacy of blood and focusing on leaving a thriving estate to his cousin-in-law. With his diligence Locksley had prospered, with momentum sure to carry it successfully into the new era. Its owner, however, seemed to be stagnating.

Suddenly, his butler came in and announced a guest. He barely had time to process his surprise when she bustled in, hot on his heels.

"Mrs. Crawley," he blurted, rising abruptly.

"Good morning, Sir Anthony. I hope I'm in time for tea," and with that, this redoubtable lady sat resolutely down on the sofa.

"Why, yes of course," Anthony uttered politely, pulling the bell cord and arranging some tea. All this while, his guest examined him closely, her keen, medically trained eyes noticing the signs of anxiety and insomnia. His proficiency with one arm, however, had improved greatly over the few short years, as she had known it would, to the point where it barely seemed to be a concern anymore.

When the footman who answered his summons had left, Anthony had recovered his shock enough to play the host.

"Mrs. Crawley, may I say what pleasure—"

"An intrusion you mean. I know I've barged in on your solitude. But I have something important to discuss, and I wanted to catch you when you are in. You are so often absent lately."

"I have several matters of business which—" Anthony began, but Mrs. Crawley made a gesture to quiet him.

"I know you have many concerns. And so do I. Which brings me to the reason for my visit."

He frowned, taking a seat, and fixing his tired blue eyes upon her.

"It's just this. I need to know. Are you still in love with my cousin?"

Anthony sucked in a sharp, sudden breath which made him cough.

"Mrs. Crawley, I don't quite understand—" he choked.

"It's very simple. Do you love Edith or don't you?" She pressed.

"Mrs. Crawley, while I appreciate your attachment to Lady Edith, it is far more complicated than that, as you well know," he said with resolve and a little sadness.

"I don't agree. Sir Anthony, my son is dead. His and Lady Mary's happiness was snatched away from them. Lady Sybil died also, and poor Tom is carrying on as best he can. But _you_ are not dead. And I believe with you, Edith has a chance at happiness. That is, if you still love her enough to fight for her."

There was silence, prolonged by the entrance of the footman with the tea-tray, the pouring out and distribution of teacups. When both had taken an inaugural sip, Anthony finally spoke.

"Mrs. Crawley, is Edith unhappy?" He asked, his voice calm but his expression almost the mirror of what it had been that day in the church four years ago.

"I'd like to say she isn't, but that would be a lie. She tries to hide it, but something is bothering her. She enjoys writing her column, and seems to take great pleasure in her daily walk, but…sometimes I catch her, watching Mary and George or little Sybbie with Tom…and the look on her face is so wistful, so lonely…"

Sir Anthony 's frown deepened. He perfectly understood that loneliness and yearning. He sighed.

"So?" Mrs. Crawley challenged.

He met her resolute expression and exhaled wearily.

"Yes, I do love her." He said it as a fact, an irrefutable truth like the fact that the sky is blue or the world is round.

"And will you try—to patch things up with her? I'm not saying she'll have you—but at the very least talk to her. You owe her an apology, and more of an explanation than you gave her. And once that is done, I'll tell you the rest of it, and we'll consider how to proceed."

"The rest of it? Is Edith in trouble?"

"I'm not sure. But that's for another time. First things first, write to her."

"Mrs. Crawley, I know you have always been in favor of Edith and I, but the family, the Dowager in particular…"

"Let me worry about Lady Grantham," she said peevishly. "I have made rather a sport out of jousting with her. It's very hard for her to admit that she is wrong, but she will in the end, if everything works out."

"I really don't think I ought to do this. Of course I want Edith to be happy, but as a man of honor, I should not go against Robert, not go back on my word…"

"As a man of honor you should have married Edith in the first place," she said bluntly.

He winced, acknowledging the truth of her words.

She softened, rising to go. "Take courage, Sir Anthony. Do what must be done and it will all turn out for the best. You owe it to Edith to try."

He nodded and stood to walk her to the door.

"Oh, don't bother, I can see myself out. Thank you for the tea. And good luck."

And with that, she strode through the library door and was gone.

XXX

A/N: Outside readers may have figured out that I'm a total Andith shipper. I'm going to try not to make all of these prompts into Andith stories (I've got one about Thomas and SybilxTom coming up), but the next one is very Andith and so will be posted as Ch. 7 of Andith Anthology.

Thanks for you readership and support! Hope you enjoy! :D


	4. Chapter 4

Prompt: Ruined

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INT. LONDON OFFICE OF SIR RICHARD CARLISLE. MORNING.

_Sir Richard Carlisle is seen standing behind his desk, examining drafts, shuffling papers, etc. He looks up as Edith Crawley enters._

_._

CARLISLE

_(Slowly, almost mockingly.) _

Lady Edith Crawley.

.

EDITH

Sir Richard. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.

.

_Edith sits. Carlisle does not._

_._

CARLISLE

I must admit I was surprised to receive your note. What can I do for you?

.

EDITH

Well, it's about my editor at _The Sketch_.

.

CARLISLE

Michael Gregson. I'd heard he'd gone missing.

.

_With his usual acuity, Carlisle knows everything._

_._

EDITH

Yes. He went to Germany to see to some business there and no one's seen or heard from him for months.

.

_Carlisle has been watching her critically. He knows, too, about their relationship._

_._

CARLISLE

Germany is hardly the place to have business these days. There are dangerous groups gaining power there.

.

EDITH

_(Distressed.)_

I know. That's why I've come to you. I've got to find him. I need to know one way or the other if he's… _(dead, she can't bring herself to say)._ I've hired detectives, Papa has even gotten involved, and nothing's turned up. But I thought perhaps that you, being a newspaper man…

.

CARLISLE

I've got correspondents in Berlin and Dusseldorf, but I can't send them on a wild goose chase for no good reason.

.

_Edith feels the shoe drop. This is a man she'd rather not be beholden to. But she has no other choice._

_._

EDITH

I can't pay you, I'm afraid. And I know you wouldn't do it as a favor, especially not after what happened with the family.

.

CARLISLE

You know I don't deal in favors.

.

EDITH

_(Almost afraid of the answer.)_

Then what can I do?

.

_Carlisle considers for a moment._

_._

CARLISLE

Have dinner with me.

.

EDITH

You ruined my sister's reputation and now you want me to have dinner with you?

.

CARLISLE

_(Stating the truth, without malice.)_

_You_ ruined your sister's reputation. I just wrote the headlines.

.

EDITH

But why?

.

CARLISLE

I'm working on a deal to buy a publishing company, but the sellers are stalling. Your Mr. Gregson's influence in the literary set might help seal the deal. I'm meeting with the executives for dinner on Thursday. Will you be there?

.

EDITH

_(Reluctant. Can she trust him?)_

Won't your fiancé mind?

.

CARLISLE

Dani is American. She understands the nature of business.

.

_His assertion that this is merely business relieves her a little._

_._

EDITH

Well, alright. What time shall I meet you?

.

CARLISLE

I'll call for you at seven o'clock. You're staying with your aunt, aren't you?

.

EDITH

Yes.

.

_She rises to leave._

_._

EDITH

_(Cont'd)_

And you'll let me know if you find anything? Anything at all. You can write me at Downton and I'll train up to meet you. Thank you, Sir Richard.

.

_She puts out a hand to seal their bargain in good faith. He takes it._

_._

CARLISLE

_(Once again stating facts, but __almost__ kindly.)_

You know, you're going to an awful lot of trouble for a man you can't marry.

_She does not respond, but drops his hand and leaves. He watches her go, his expression unreadable._

_._

XXX

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A/N: I love Iain Glen. And I loved his interpretation of Sir Richard. And I thought his character intriguing enough to bring him back, even if just for a bit. : )


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